


Heavy Fall

by one_irradiated_muppet



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Feelings, Gen, M/M, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-02-03 17:38:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12753030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_irradiated_muppet/pseuds/one_irradiated_muppet
Summary: The Junkers experience some typical British weather and Junkrat catches feelings.





	Heavy Fall

Junkrat's metal fingers clutched his side, blood oozing between them, hot and sticky on his skin. Ragged breathes shook him, but his face was split by a manic grin and there was more blood on his busted lip, his deep-set eyes wide and wild. His frag launcher hung at his side, damaged, the tire spinning lopsidedly, but he'd spent the last of his grenades anyway.

They'd blazed out of London with half the MET riding their arses, sirens wailing in the night air; Junkrat could still see red and blue when he closed his eyes. They'd hit countryside before they managed to shake them off long enough to stash their hoard of stolen jewels, but had ended up cornered in a small farm. Scorched earth, pitted and cratered, marked where they'd made their stand, and behind them, the barn was ablaze. Even above the explosions and gunfire, they'd heard the screams of the livestock within, and the smoke which still billowed out of the flames carried a distinctly beefy scent. Maybe they'd have time for BBQ after all this.

"Oi, Roadie," Junkrat croaked, tasting copper. "Still with me?"

Roadhog was propped up by one hand on an old, and now decidedly worse for wear tractor, his breathing even more laboured than Junkrat's. But at least it was something. He'd taken more than his share of bullets during the fight, literally shielding Junkrat when things had gotten truly hairy, his huge back turned to the gunfire as he hunched over him. Junkrat had just sustained the deep wound in his side, but adrenaline let him push past in, and he'd wrested a can from Roadhog's belt, shoving it into his mask and watching the Hogdrogen light up behind the lenses.

The MET might have been Her Majesty's finest, but they'd never come up against criminals like the Junkers. Eventually, they must have decided the death toll had gotten too great, because they'd pulled back, save for the helicopter which still circled, forced high by the smoke. That smoke would be their saviour, Junkrat bet.

"Hnngh." Roadhog grunted weakly, dropping his scrap gun to claw his fingers into the grill of the machine.

"Shit," Junkrat hissed, wincing as he hobbled over to him, every jolting step sending pain lancing through his chest. The bullet had definitely struck a rib or two.

At Roadhog's side, he fumbled beneath his girth in search of another can and was awash with relief to find one left. He wrenched it free and held it up with shaky fingers, having to lean into Roadhog to stay steady himself. As if rallied, Roadhog managed to spare a hand, and with a click and a hiss, he was breathing it in. A shudder ran through him, but he cut the effects short, bringing the can down to Junkrat's face instead.

Junkrat knew from prior experience how horrible the stuff tasted - like chewing on paracetamol - but Roadhog was insistent. For once Junkrat didn't take much convincing, and he sucked the glowing fumes down, face contorting at the taste, until he could take no more, and doubled over to wretch.

A large arm laid over his back, perhaps intended to comfort him as much as for the support, as he heaved and spat acid, and when he was done he wiped his stinging lips with the back of his arm. The convulsions made it hard to tell whether the stuff had done any good, but he'd probably have passed out without it. Roadhog's arm was heavy and warm across his waist, but after a moment Junkrat felt another touch, cooler and lighter on the sweat-slicked skin of his neck.

Rain.

Rain was rare in the outback, but when it came, you sure as hell didn't want to be caught in it; swimming with radiation, it burned rather than soothed, poisoning the land and living alike. But this rain was different, was /right/. The first few drops pinged off the metal hull of the tractor and softly pelted the dry earth before the heavens opened up.

Junkrat doubted he'd never felt anything so wonderful. He breathed deep, mouth hanging open, thick droplets soaking his hair and rolling down to catch on his parched lips. The taut skin of his back felt like that of a drum, being rapped in an uncountable rhythm. Washed away were the smells of charred meat, homemade explosives and his own vomit; the earth was alive, rich and green, filling up his senses. Roadhog's arm slid off his back heavily, and Junkrat straightened to press into his side. But he needn't have been concerned; Roadhog was reaching up to tug off his mask.

Junkrat had never seen his face before.

The rain flowed in rivulets down the deep crease of Roadhog's brow, parting like streams to run either side of his broad nose. His eyes were closed, and Junkrat watched his bushy silver brows unknit, the wiry hair glistening with caught droplets. His full lips had fallen open in an expression of relief, a sigh leaving him in a puff white mist. More silver hair grew thickly along the edges of his jaw, save for where a jagged scar prevented it; the scar curved from the bridge of his nose across his cheek, and the wound must have cut to the bone. But right now it glistened, the raw flesh just another path for the rain.

Junkrat's hair was sopping, clinging to his brow and dripping into his eyes, and when he reached to wipe it away the movement brought Roadhog back to reality; he turned his head to look down at Junkrat and their gaze met, unhindered by foggy lenses, for the first time. Roadhog's eyes were pale blue, small but bright despite his clear exhaustion. The night had taken its toll, but Roadhog looked like he'd been tired for years, which Junkrat supposed he might, having been dealt one bad hand after another. But there was a fondness in his gaze that left Junkrat stunned; he couldn't remember the last time someone had looked at him with anything but fear or disdain.

"Spark's gone out," Roadhog murmured, lifting a hand to ruffle the wet mess of Junkrat's hair - which, it was true, no longer smouldered. Without the mask, his voice was low and clear.

"Not even close." Junkrat's was a hoarse whisper, drowned out by the downpour as they leant on each other.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the wonderful Ceia for giving this a read through! <3 Check out her works for some truly excellent Overwatch fics!


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